But what if they saw through his disguise? What if, instead of a powerful man, they saw a frightened little boy, locked in his basement? The more his thoughts dwelt on the sharp FBI agent in charge, how he could be caught, the more anxious he became – scorpions skittering under his skin—biting, stinging, burning. In futility, he clawed at his arms with nails gnawed to the quick. A cigarette? Fire!
Shoving the disgusting bowl of pasta to the floor, he grabbed his favorite terracotta pot from across the table, tore paper, filled it, and flicked his metal pocket lighter. The smell. The faint crackle. The heat. The mesmerizing dance of the flames. At last, he could breathe, and his anxiety waned.
They had all wronged him. The world was against him. Let it burn. Maybe it should all burn. But not yet.
“What do we do about the feds? They’re on to us.”
No. They’re just askin’ everyone questions. You saw. You aren’t the only one. If they had anything, they’d be busting in searchin’ our place. You’re safe here, the voice in his mind consoled.
“So what? I just sit back and wait?” He shredded a cereal box, feeding torn pieces to his fire pot. For years, it had been enough. Then everything had snapped. He needed more.
How far will you go?
“People have already died. What’s a few more? How many life sentences can they give me?”
Staring at the hypnotic twisting of the flames before him, he rubbed a hand across his chin. Considering. Hungering to feel. Needing to keep safe. Only fire kept him safe. It always had. It would again.
“I’m all in. No choice. Act or die.”
The voice, constantly echoing in his brain, kept silent. No matter.
“I’ll devise a plan,” he told himself, head cocked in deliberation. He dragged a finger along his jaw, then flicked it through the column of flame leaping from the pot.
You did it before,returned his invisible companion. Accelerant. Fuel. Ignition. It’s easy. Just be sure the woman agent is there. Feed her to your fire. With her gone, the others can’t catch you.
He lit the last scrap of the cardboard, holding it, moving it in a slow twirl, until the fire skimmed the pads of his fingers. Only then did he release it into the burning pot. It was true, he’d lost his temper with the HR woman. The others had been collateral damage. But to plan a murder?
Power, invincibility, and the thrill of the challenge rushed through him like a firestorm. His eyes brightened, his heart racing. “We can do this!” he declared, slamming a fist on the table. The pot rattled, embers stirring. Flames leaped higher, cheering him on. Emboldened, the firestarter got to work.
The next morning
As soon as Flash left her shift, she hopped on her motorcycle and rode to Lone Star Manufacturing to meet Athena and Bonnie. Captain Jake didn’t mind keeping Snuffles at the station a while longer. No sense exposing her little dog to danger.
She was glad she’d been able to convince Athena over the phone that she should be there too. Nothing in heaven or earth would have kept Flash from coming—it was just, this way Athena wouldn’t be mad about it. And it definitely had nothing to do with a twinge of jealousy over Bonnie Ballard spending time alone with her girlfriend. Nope. Not at all. Flash’s foremost intention was keeping Athena safe.
Not only did the burnt-out ruins of a crumbling factory present a throng of safety hazards, but what if the arsonist showed up? Nothing left to burn, but he could have a gun. Yes, guns were Athena’s arena, and she could take care of herself. It all made intellectual sense. Flash still needed to be at Athena’s side—just in case.
Flash arrived first, parked at a safe distance, and began a slow circuit of the crumbling concrete and half-standing steel. The roof was gone, edges charred black, piles of ash compressed by water from the firefighters’ hoses. Scorched shrubbery. Broken glass. A chair’s metal frame warped from intense heat. Much of the odor had since blown away, but it still hung to scattered piles of debris.
She pictured it ablaze—orange glow against a midnight sky. Screaming workers, sirens, and the rush of water trying to tame the inferno. Two people died, she recalled.
You can’t save them all.The words rang hollow in her chest. Then came the scrape of tires over gravel.
Flash turned around, relieved to see Athena and Bonnie exit the fire investigator’s pickup truck. Picking up her pace, she strode to meet them.
“Flash,” Bonnie greeted. “Athena told me you were meeting us here.”
“I know this is your turf,” she said to Bonnie, “but I wanted eyes on the scene. Athena said it was cool.” She risked a glance at her sexy, all-business FBI agent—black slacks hugging curves, sensible shoes for once. She had to wrangle her wandering thoughts to focus on the task before them.
“Right,” Bonnie concurred.
“What’s the sense you get from here?” Athena asked as she sidled up beside Flash.
“It burned fast,” she deduced. “Station Twenty-one would’ve hit this in under ten. They’ve got an engine and a tower truck, so would have had a hose on the roof and more going in the front. But look at the extent of the damage.” She waved a hand at the burnt-out shell with a missing exterior wall.
“I agree,” Bonnie said. “We identified three points of origin—the office, a closet, and a storage room, all laced with accelerant. But only the office had the signature sparkler. I suspect he used a slow-release flame at the other ignition points, like a cigarette in a matchbook or something easily consumed in the blaze. Maximum damage would come from a near-simultaneous detonation of the three sites.”
“My question,” Athena stated as they stood on the edge of the ruin, “is how our unsub walked around in there, setting those fires, when workers were present? The previous buildings were empty, so no risk of getting caught. This is different. It’s like he needed a bigger thrill, more danger endorphins.”
